9th Annual Remembrance Day
by stormcane
Summary: It's the ninth year after the war and District 12 is celebrating Remembrance Day. Meet the bread mentor and Prim's boyfriend.Prim left a message for her sister before she met her death in the capitol.
1. Chapter 1 The Bread Mentor

Chapter 1 - The Bread Mentor

Looking out the window from the top floor, I see a crowd of people walking brusquely by the bakery where my husband worked to finish the bread orders in time. Everywhere around the market place, people are clutching paper bags filled with food, wrappers and knick-knacks. Mothers going from shop to shop, picking up meat products and pastries. Fathers and older men gathering in the square talking about the new republic, job openings in neighboring districts, and whether they could still make use of their mining skills in other districts. Teenage girls gathering in groups showing off trinkets that allegedly came from this or that famous shop in the Capitol.

I can see familiar faces here and there from my vantage point by the windowsill. I try to associate faces with names, but in the end, all I can see is a teeming crowd of last minute shoppers all wanting to make this year's Remembrance Day more special than the last. This is the first of three designated holidays in the new Panem, and it's meant for those that want to go back to their hometowns for Remembrance or visit other districts for a quick vacation.

For me, it's a day off. I've hunted my share with a group of former miners from the Seam. We hunt actively during spring and summer, when the animals mate and abound. The rest of the year, only those like me who think the woods look friendly even during the winter months go out hunting. Most of the game we collected the whole week are now being traded by shrewd middlemen in the Hob at three times the price we sold them for. Now that the economy's better, even lowly workers can afford a rabbit or two.

Tomorrow is Remembrance Day proper. The square will be adorned with ribbons. The small roads leading up to the meadow will be filled with families carrying picnic baskets, chairs and blankets. After a short ceremony where people lay flowers on the monument one by one and the newly elected mayor makes a speech, kids are free to run around the meadow neatly trimmed especially for that day while the adults set up makeshift tables, blankets and food.

Factory workers, apothecarists and everyone else that wants to can take the three days nationwide vacation. Everyone, except those that work in the inns, will be relaxing tomorrow. Business in the inns, of course, can't stop. Tourist season is in full swing with the multitudes of tourists coming in from other districts, wanting to experience Remembrance Day in the district where the Mockingjay lives.

The scene tomorrow will probably be a far cry from the first Remembrance Day we held in the meadow nine years ago. The day of Remembrance was once a solemn, mournful affair in 12, filled with tears and sobs. Children stood by quietly with offertory flowers in each hand, while adults went forward to touch the monument that also serves as a tomb marker at the center of the meadow.

It was during the third year that people started bringing food with them so that they can stay longer while they mourn. By the fifth year, people brought seating and more food, making the meadow their temporary home for the day. By the sixth year, everyone was in on the new way of celebrating Remembrance Day. It became a day for families to be together, sharing not tears but smiles and treats. It became the day when people remembered the past, and used the memory of lost loved ones to strengthen their resolve for the future.

Maybe it took the lot of us that long to really believe that district 12 kids are truly, irrevocably safe from the games, and the new government is gradually working out. Maybe it took that long for everyone to get over the shock of war and start living again; slowly realizing that they're better fed now and have better hope for the future. This year's Remembrance Day celebration marks the ninth year after the war. Finally, people are looking around and finding other, smaller things to worry about.

Judging from the amount of bread baking in the ovens downstairs, this year will be more festive than ever, I think wryly. I sigh and a layer of mist fills the window glass, obscuring my view. I've been in my husband's office for half an hour now and my patience is wearing thin.

I had wanted to spend an hour or two with Peeta around the monument after his work's done, and lay some of the primrose buds I picked early this morning on the monument. Some of the buds are beginning to bloom. I put two of our precious sugar cubes in the water where the primrose stalks are soaking. They'll bloom nicely by tomorrow, I assure myself.

But the bakery is still ablaze with activity two hours after Peeta told me they'd be finished with work. I hear my usually calm husband barking out orders. He sounds harassed, and I feel sort of guilty for putting pressure on him just by being there, silently reminding him that we have to go on our little date soon.

Loud bangs reach me as oven doors are slammed shut amidst snappy replies of "yes, sir" and "got it, Mr. Mellark". I considered going downstairs and lending a hand again, but thought "no" with a wide smile, thinking of what happened an hour or so ago.

I went here early, intending to help out in whatever way I can, thinking that we could get away earlier if he had another pair of hands helping out. My husband gave me a surprised look when I brusquely kissed him on the cheek and asked for something to do in the bakery.

"Are you sure, sweetheart?" he asked me, smiling at me. He was sweating bullets, but he could still talk in the superior tone he uses only when he thinks I'm about to do something I suck at.

"Oh, just give me something to do, will you?" I said impatiently and ignored all his chuckling.

Peeta asked me to fold the cake boxes and line them up in the shelf, a task that is usually reserved for the youngest trainees. When I say youngest, I mean trainees aged 12 to 15 years old, as Peeta will not accept anyone younger. Peeta has built himself a workforce of very young men and women from District 12. None of the employees working in Peeta Mellark's bakery is a day over twenty-two years old. Some of the older boys and girls have been there for over five years.

Peeta Mellark's trainees shyly came up to my husband, some with their parents or siblings, for bakery work after he posted the help wanted notice in front of his new shop one summer day six years ago. This was during the early days, a few years after the war ended, when it was clear to everyone that there will be no more reapings and parents can finally spin big dreams around their children's future. Did Peeta expect older men and women to come work for him in his bakery? Yes. But what he got was a team of young ones all wanting to learn baking from the famous victor.

Decked in what could have been their reaping day outfits, the teenage kids handed their letters of application to Peeta one by one, asking to work in his bakery part-time for the rest of the summer, and perhaps after school when the schools open. He initially refused, saying he can't possibly pay all of them, but most of the kids said they only wanted leftover bread as pay. Peeta reluctantly agreed to take in a few.

Those too young to handle the ovens were given smaller tasks, while the older kids are trained in shaping dough. Peeta himself baked the bread in the beginning, until some of the older kids started learning his methods. Soon, he had hired the older kids to work full time, and called them senior trainees to distinguish them from the younger part-timers. Senior trainees manned the counters and baked the bread. Younger trainees kept the baskets out front filled with pastries.

Haymitch would stop by before he went to the Hob to trade for whiskey. Those from the first batch of trainees were fearful of him for good reason. He would growl and act scary until they scampered off to the back of the shop, and then would laugh and tease Peeta incessantly about being a "bread mentor" to the kids in District 12.

Peeta used to act offended at the title, and shoos him away, but anyone could tell he's secretly elated to be the one shaping the next generation of bakers in our small district. Not all his trainees are cut out to become bakers, though. Many of the kids lost interest after a few weeks. But the ones that really love to bake stuck around.

I work as fast as I can as the white-aproned staff of the bakery ran circles around me as they juggled trays of fragrant bread, more cake boxes and paper bags filled with cookies with seemingly no effort at all.

Soon, it becomes clear that I can't possibly fold more than one box a minute, and Dylan, a smiling senior trainee pitched in to help me. He breezes through the whole stack in under fifteen minutes. He was a merchant's son from the old District 12, one of those lucky enough to survive the razing. He must have been eleven then, and he now lives with the handful of living relatives that survived the war.

With nothing to do but stand around and watch my baker husband create more delicious treats for the people of district 12, I volunteered to go upstairs and take orders coming in by phone. Of course, when I got there, I promptly unhooked the phone, sat by the window to contemplate the scene below and decided to patiently wait for Peeta to finish while enjoying the smell of baking bread.


	2. Chapter 2 Prim's Boyfriend

**Chapter 2: Prim's Boyfriend**

Hearing the sound of footsteps coming up the short flight of stairs, I look up to see Peeta. Sweaty and red-faced, he gives me a weary smile and begins to peel off his apron and the white shirt underneath. A fresh shirt is waiting for him, hanging on the empty coat stand by the door.

I get up from my spot near the window and stride up to him, hiding my impatience behind a big smile. I hug him from behind.

"Are you done baking?" I whisper into his ear.

"Just about" he says, "the orders stopped coming, which means we can go–" he glances in the direction of the desk and notices the end of the phone line hanging near the vase of primrose blossoms. His eyes widen as he realizes what I did. "Katniss…"

I move away from him quickly, knowing I am busted. I remove my own pants and shirt, and put on one of the dresses I always kept in a locker in one corner of his office. Just in case we needed to go somewhere for dinner or lunch and couldn't go back home to change. This one's blue, not unlike the dress my mother made me wear during my first reaping.

I turn around to smile at my husband's unbelieving expression.

"Yes, I unhooked the phone. Yes, I sabotaged your business today. And yes, it's because I want to go to the meadow with you as soon as possible," I move closer to help him button the cream-colored shirt I picked out for him to wear.

"Forgive me?" I ask, not looking at his face, my lower lip thrust out in mock guilt.

"I don't believe you're in any way sorry for what you did," Peeta laughs as he adjusts my braid and lifts my chin with one finger. "Ready to go?"

We walk hand in hand towards the meadow, Peeta waving hello to some of the people who call out to us. I nod in greeting, my other arm too loaded with the vase of flowers to wave. We may be celebrities to the rest of Panem, but among the people who knew us before the war, we have gone back to being Katniss Everdeen-Mellark and Peeta Mellark, two District 12 kids that married each other when they grew up.

It's nearing sunset, but the meadow is still abuzz with activity when we arrive. Volunteers from the populace are clipping the grass and cleaning the areas littered with goat manure. Peacekeepers are busy putting up signs on low hanging trees and shrubs. Mostly reminding people to clean their space when they leave, and absolutely no drinking liquor. This means Haymitch will not be joining us tomorrow.

In the new district 12, you can do just about anything within the boundaries of the new set of rules. But one thing that isn't tolerated is being loudly drunk out on the streets and making a mess. Drunks are hauled to the new detaining office, where they are locked up overnight and let go in the morning when they're sober enough.

One time, Haymitch spent the night there, but he needed no hauling. The peacekeepers were more than happy to have him walk to the office himself, as he swung his ever-present knife around when anyone got too close. District 12 citizens and visitors that have been drinking must act like they aren't drunk while on the streets, or sleep it off somewhere before they go home.

"Katniss, are you alright?" I feel Peeta's hand tighten around mine as we near the monument.

I can feel my hand sweating as memories of what happened nine years ago threaten to overcome me. Even if Prim's body is not among those buried under the monument, in my heart I feel like this is the place where we buried her. I nod silently and grip his hand tighter, hugging the vase close to smell the flowers that have just started to bloom.

At the base of the monument is a cemented space where people can place flowers, herbs, leaves and potted plants. The potted seedlings are replanted around the meadow, while most of the cut flowers and herbs are collected by the district council after Remembrance Day and dried. This fragrant collection of dried herbs and petals is lovingly preserved in small boxes or bottles. These, in turn, are sold at the Justice hall for a minimal price, to help pay for the food of the next Remembrance Day's cleaning volunteers.

There are flower containers and bunches already placed there, but what catches my attention is the young man placing a canister on the cemented ground. The can contains a very young shrub. I can tell from a few feet away that the shrub inside the container is definitely evening primrose. The young man has knelt to the ground with his hands covering his face when we arrive. I purposely place my own vase of primroses near the primrose shrub, a sad smile on my lips.

Peeta is looking up at the monument, touching the stone with one hand, a faraway look in his eyes. His handsome face has more lines now, but he still looks a lot like the baker's son from back then. As his hand touches the memorial rock gently, I can tell he's thinking of his family, especially his father. I clutch his free hand and lean my head on his shoulder, taking this chance to thank his father once again for the cookies.

For a minute, we stay in the same pose, letting the afternoon sun spend its last rays on our skin. Just then, we hear a shocked gasp to our side. The young man kneeling by the monument a while ago is now standing wide-eyed, mouth hanging open and hands clutching his knapsack close to his chest.

"Katniss Everdeen. Prim's sister," he croaked out.

Peeta and I look at the young man in surprise. He's very tall and lanky. His long wavy hair burns a brilliant copper in the sunset. He has blue eyes, but they're lighter in shade than Peeta's. I can see now that his white overalls is cut in the fashion so popular in district 13, but the cuffs are folded several times over the elbow so that it looks like the uniform our workers in 12 wear. This man is from there, without a doubt, I think to myself.

"How do you know my sister?" I say, sounding sharper that I intended.

He opens his mouth to reply when a bird flies overhead, very near his head. Suddenly, he jumps back with a yelp, one of his arms flailing as if to shoo the bird away. A few seconds later, two kids holding seeds and grains aloft in their small hands come running up to him shouting, "hey mister, you're scaring the bird!"

The young man turns in the direction of the screaming kids, which is obviously a mistake. He catches the glare of the sun right in the face and he yelps again. He lifts both his arms to hide his eyes, dropping his knapsack and falling backwards, as if the rays of the sun were laser beams about to obliterate him.

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see two peacekeepers running to our spot, but Peeta is already behind the dazed man, helping him up. My husband is murmuring something and the young man is nodding with both his eyes still shut tight.

"Is everything ok here, Mr. Mellark" one of the peacekeepers ask. I recognize him as a regular customer in Peeta's bakery. He is sniffing subtly, as if trying to detect the telltale smell of liquor in the air.

"Yes, everything's fine," Peeta says, heaving slightly as he lifts the young man to his feet. "I think our friend here is not used to being outdoors. You're from district 13, aren't you?" Peeta asks him directly. The young man nods, still not opening his eyes.

My husband and I share a look. He knows exactly what I'm thinking.

"We'll see that he has lodging for the night," Peeta says to the peacekeepers and I give a little sigh of relief. I can't have peacekeepers hauling the young man away before my curiosity is satisfied. Especially since he seems to have known Prim when she was alive.

The peacekeepers leave, glad to hand over the responsibility of taking care of the young man to someone of note in the district. Peeta walks with our strange visitor to a nearby shade tree, and I follow closely behind them.

"So, you knew Prim?" I ask unceremoniously as soon as I reach the shade, taking in the stranger's tousled appearance, his thin but overly tall frame, and the big knapsack over his bony shoulders.

His cheeks are peppered with tiny freckles the color of rust. His hair is a dull red and tangled in a big mess around his head, with streaks of yellow interspersed with the red strands. He stands almost a head taller than Peeta. Or is it just the hair?

I look a little closer, craning my neck to get a better glimpse of his face, and almost reel in shock. The youthful look around his eyes and the smooth skin on his face caught me off guard. This boy couldn't possibly be older than me.

The boy took a few minutes gazing at his feet before answering.

"Prim is… was… my girlfriend."


	3. Chapter 3 Prim's Secret Friend

Chapter 3 – Prim's Secret Friend

"You take care of yourself out there," says Nursy, a former medical worker in the quarantine ward where I stayed until I was about eight. She presses a bulky brown envelope into my hand and folds my fingers over it. "This is your pay for all the years you worked as my assistant," Nursy's weeping openly now. "Don't spend it all in one place."

Nursy dries her tears long enough to look me over with pride in her eyes. "Fold your sleeves, it's spring," she adds. I start to protest, but she insists. "Just up to the elbow, right below your spots."

Mother-like Nursy, who convinced the whole district 13 hospital staff that the red spots on my body were nothing more than birthmarks inherited from my deceased father, is now the head of the greenhouse division of District 13. She's the only one in the district that knows why I tried in vain to overcome my insane fear of the outside world. Over the past five years, she has been helping me get used to life aboveground.

She sends me out to gather twigs and rocks and whatever else she says she desperately needs inside 13's new surface greenhouse. She would threaten me with whatever punishment she could think of if I protested. All the other workers think she's being cruel to the local freak show, but I know better. She's the closest thing to a relative I have, and she's the only one in 13 that cares about my mission. Before going back underground, she hands me a paper bag with one of the younger primrose seedlings we kept in the herbarium.

"Thank you, Nursy," I say, trying to keep the fear out of my voice. There's a reason why I only ventured out now even though everyone has been able to for the past years. The first few times I tried to go out, I experienced panic so strong that they had to confine me in the hospital until the panic subsided.

"I'll survive," I think out loud, looking at the primrose seedling inside the paper bag. I'll do it. For Prim.

I fold the money envelop one more time and insert it into the pocket of my overalls. I adjust my bag and hold the precious cargo within closer to my chest. In this bag is the box Prim entrusted to me before she went on her mission in the Capitol nearly a decade ago.

We are waiting for the shuttle that will bring me to District 12. The platform is located aboveground, and the sound the wind makes still seems strange to me. Trees have been planted around this spot to block out the sun, giving the citizens of 13 time to adjust for a few minutes before they board. The plans to extend the railway to 13 never pushed through, as very few of our citizens really wanted to venture out on a regular basis. Our representatives travel by hovercraft to the Capitol anyway. Regular citizens that really want to go elsewhere ride the weekly shuttle service that crosses the surface wasteland of 13 to the nearest district with a train station, district 12.

My real name is Augustine. It's the name embroidered on the old baby blanket that I keep as a remembrance from my long-dead mother. I didn't know her, nor did I know my father. I was born in District 13 during the time of the pox, which claimed both my parents' lives. I survived. Some say it's because my mother was too far along in her pregnancy when she got the pox, making me immune to the virus that continued to kill people in this underground world where my parents escaped to.

Even if nobody told me to my face, I know I wasn't from here. I've heard people say that my folks were lucky to be taken in considering their circumstances. They were mutants, my parents. Capitol freaks that made a living being genetically altered. My father worked as a genetic tester for safari fashions. Doctors injected grafts of skin into his own, resulting in map-like patterns, not unlike those of a giraffe. He grew excessively tall. Then there was the DNA accident that cost my father his ability to form human words. They stretched out his neck as far as they can but the genetic engineers failed to get my father's neck to elongate. They irrevocably damaged his vocal chords instead.

He met my mother while they were confined in the same hospital, my mother being a genetic tester herself. Her case was different because she could no longer perform as a test subject for hair products. Her long red hair had become wire-like and unable to accept dye. She also developed resistance to further genetic manipulation, making her useless as a DNA test subject. She was scheduled for scalp replacement when she found out that her little tryst with my father in the hospital ward bore fruit.

The company she worked for wanted her to have the baby, and they offered to pay her ten times what she's already getting as pension if she gave her baby to them. The child of two mutants could prove to be an interesting study, particularly because the mutations done on the parents were so extreme. That was the last straw for my father and mother. Even though they hardly cared about each other, they mutually agreed that there could be a better life for their child. Lying on a surgeon's table and listening to engineers gossip about avoxes and politicians for years paid off. They figured out where district 13 could be and how to get there. Surprisingly, the government in 13 accepted them. I guess when the population is dying off because of a virus they are not able to control for decades, even mutant refugees, or those that looked just barely human would be welcome, especially if one of them was heavy with child.

Seeing how I was taller than most people even at 12 years old, Nursy suggested I work with her in the hospital's stock room and herbarium, where shelves filled with medicines and herbal drugs were built all the way to the ceiling. I slept in an empty room near the herbarium so that doctors and healers can call me any time, whether it's daytime or night time. It was in the stock room that I met Primrose Everdeen, the most beautiful girl I have ever seen.

"Hello. I need St. John's wort, red ginger rhizomes and powdered mulberry leaves, please," piped a cheerful voice.

I straightened up from where I was crouched under the counter and looked upon the golden hair of a girl around my age. She was so tiny, she barely reached five feet. She was looking at her list on the countertop, while I prepared the items she ordered. When I placed the tray in front of her, she murmured her thanks. That's when she looked up, up, up to me… and smiled.

"You're very tall, aren't you?" she said, her eyes widening slightly, with an expression of wonder I've never seen on anyone's face before.

I could feel my cheeks burn, my eyes water from the strain of keeping it from blinking. I have read about the sun, and how it can be more dazzling than the artificial light we use in the herbarium. But nothing could be more dazzling than the smile on the girl's face.

"What's your name?" she asked, tilting her head to the side.

"People around just call me Freak." I answered. I found myself slouching slightly in embarrassment.

She seemed to consider this for a while, then said, "I'll call you Frecks, then. For your freckles."

I found myself smiling, captivated by her friendly gesture. "Thank you for the name. I like it," I said, the warm feeling in my chest made me more comfortable talking. We shook hands and introduced ourselves again. She introduced herself as Primrose Everdeen.

Over the next months, I always looked forward to the times when she would collect her supplies for the day. For her, I reserved the best medicinal fruits, the purest extracts and the freshest leaves. I powdered the roots of her herbs so fine they looked like sugar. We talked about everything from which mint plant was best for burns, to her former life in district 12 with her family, to her beautiful orange cat. Nursy started noticing my little crush on Prim and would leave when she arrived to give us privacy.

For a while, I thought everyday would turn out as blissful as the last until I accidentally listened into the conversation of two hospital trainees in the stock room. Both were familiar faces from district 13, around a few years older than me. One was complaining that a certain underage trainee from district 12 had been given special permission to join the team bound for the Capitol. The other one was sneering about the same person, saying she was a know-it-all, and was only being given special treatment because she's Katniss Everdeen's sister. No one else was saying anything about it because the all-important Mockingjay might get angry and abort the all-important mission. Katniss Everdeen. I knew that name.

Suddenly, I felt anger well up inside me, making me lose my temper. Before I could stop myself, I found myself saying, "Are you talking about Primrose Everdeen? She's more qualified than either of you to join a mission outside, if she's who you're talking about." Both trainees turned to glare at me. I glared back.

"And what do you know, Freak? Why are you defending her? You in love with her or something? As if any girl would find a mutant's son like you attractive!" One of them had reached up and grabbed me by my collar when a familiar voice spoke from the doorway. It was Prim. How long had she been standing there?

"Hey! What are you doing to my boyfriend?" she demanded shrilly, blue eyes snapping, cold as ice. My ears buzzed at the last word she uttered, barely feeling it when the trainee shoved me back as he let go of my collar. Boyfriend. That was the word she used. The word she used to refer to me. Me. Prim's boyfriend.

Prim strode regally to the counter, ignoring the two trainees that shuffled past her to the exit. She sighed and rolled her eyes, mumbling something about how she couldn't stand bullies. She placed a wooden shoe box on the counter in front of me. I was only vaguely aware of what she was doing, as the room was swaying slightly, and everything seemed to happen in slow motion.

"Frecks? Are you alright?" her voice brought me back to earth. I stood up straighter, clearing my throat and running my hand self-consciously through my tangled hair.

"Don't mind people like that," she said, smiling up at me, "they only want to feel good about themselves at other people's expense."

"You're right. They don't matter. Uhm –" I stammered, feeling my face heat up as she continued to smile. Then, I noticed the wooden shoe box for the first time. "What's this?"

Her face turned serious all of a sudden, she said, "I want you to promise me something, Frecks."

"Anything," I answered as I watched her bring out a small propaganda poster from her pocket and place it face down on the shoe box. The box was sealed around the sides with several layers of paraffin. The wood was decorated with crayon paintings of flowers and leaves. Judging from the size of the box, it must have been hers when she was small.

Looking at me straight in the eye, she said, "I want you to deliver this box to my sister just in case I don't return here from the mission in the Capitol. Please do this for me, Frecks."

I digested what she was saying, watching as she took her pen and scribbled several lines on the back of the small poster. She wrote out Mockingjay, Katniss Everdeen, District 12, Victors Village. Then, I realized something else.

"Why don't you just leave it with your mother? She's not going to the Capitol, is she?" Prim looked up from her writing with a guilty look in her eyes.

"Your mother didn't allow you to go?" I asked. She nodded slightly and continued writing. Underneath, she wrote several more names. Haymitch Abernathy, Peeta Mellark and Gale Hawthorne.

"Then, you shouldn't go!" I exclaimed, feeling like it's my place to reprimand her for disobeying her mother.

She didn't answer. Instead she finished writing and handed the paper to me. On the front is the promotional photo of her sister Katniss in a soldier's suit. On the back are the words she had scribbled, names of people I should ask if I couldn't find her sister.

"I want to go, Frecks. I have to be there for my sister, in case she's hurt and needs help," she looked pleadingly at me, as if asking me not to tell her mother, "It's my turn to save her."

I looked at the box then at Prim's serious face. A part of me panicked at the implication of her leaving something valuable with me as she goes off on a dangerous mission. Then, I made a decision.

"I'll hang on to this until you personally come back for it. Then, you can give it to your sister yourself." I told her earnestly, tears beginning to form in my throat, stinging my eyes. "I'll wait for you here."

"Fair enough," she said, smiling widely again. She extended her right hand and looked at me expectantly. I grabbed her small hand, callused and worn from her chores in the hospital, and squeezed gently.

The night they left for the Capitol, I couldn't sleep. I thought of Prim in the hovercraft, probably reviewing the protocol for medics in the battlefield, eyes alert and face serious. I looked at my hand, remembering how we shook hands for the last time, still feeling her warmth and her determination. I didn't have a family of my own, so her devotion to hers has always been a source of inspiration for me. I brought out the box from my locker several times and traced the patterns of flowers on it, praying desperately for Prim to be alright, hoping that she will return soon.

The news of what happened after the siege on the Capitol reached us. Some medics were hurt, some died. Apparently, the siege was a success and people in 13 started making plans to move to the Capitol or other districts where renovation jobs abound. No one mentioned the Everdeen sisters or the Mockingjay until the day of President Coin's accidental assassination. Yes, everyone believed the shooting was accidental. The whole of district 13 was stunned and sorrowful that our leader was assassinated, but no one blamed the Mockingjay. Hospital staff talked about Katniss Everdeen apparently suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder since she lost her unborn child, and how she should never have been allowed to shoot the former president, no matter how symbolic it is for her to do it. She was obviously confused, following orders from television directors to shoot the President of Panem, inadvertently shooting the current president instead of the old one. People blamed the television crew, the Mockingjay's handlers, advisors, and all the manipulators behind the scenes that handed a deadly weapon to mentally unstable girl.

I began taking my meals outside the hospital, around people that could tell me whether or not Primrose Everdeen went home with Katniss Everdeen to district 12. She had to be. I could picture Prim caring for her mentally unstable sister, grinding powerful sedative herbs that she would slip in her sister's tea every night. She's probably watching over her sister like a mother hen, willing her to break through her insanity while brewing miraculous herbal decoctions in her cast iron pot. I could never imagine her leaving her sister a day just to travel back to 13 to get a box. Prim, of all people, would never do that. Her family came first. After a while, news of Prim's mother setting up a hospital wing in district 4 reached the staff in 13. Several of the healers were eager to go, happy to finally see what the rest of Panem looks like.

Could Prim be with her mother after all? Maybe she left her sister in the care of others and joined her mother in district 4? I was tempted to run to the last hovercraft deployed to transport people out, but thought about the box. What if she returned and I'm not here? By the fourth year after the war, I had convinced myself that Primrose Everdeen was too busy doing things for her family to return. But she WILL return. After all, she left something important here. Nursy kept telling me to go to her, remind her. After all that happened to her family, Miss Prim might have forgotten about the little box she left in 13. It took me a while to muster the courage, took me all the strength I have to get over my fears, but I'm finally ready.

So, here I am, holding a primrose seedling, heading to district 12 with several other citizens on their vacation. I think of my itinerary. Take the box to Victor's Village and check if Prim went home there. If she's not there, I'll leave the box with her sister and take the next train out to district 4, look for the hospital where her mother works. On paper, it seems so simple. I could go back to district 13 by the end of the third vacation day. "That is, if I still want to go back after I find her", I mumble to myself, patting the handsome wad of cash Nursy gave me. I might just take up residence in the district where Prim is and start a business or something. Maybe rent a basement room and raise medicinal fungi. Or, breed special yeast strains for brewing wine in a cellar.

I sigh as I realize all the plans I have now that I'm aboveground involve moving to a location below ground. I wonder if Prim would think I'm a coward for fearing the outside world, of being scared of the sun or a sudden gust of wind. I remember how her blue eyes harden as she goes on her perfectionist mode. I can almost hear her say "you can do better than that" like she would if I made a poultice wrong, or when I minced rather pounded a piece of beetroot. Thank god the shuttle trip to the train station takes half a day. I need to sort out my emotions. I'm excited, yes, but also scared. Will she even remember me? Then, a sudden thought brings chills down my spine: does she already have a boyfriend?

The sun is playing hide and seek behind fat white clouds when we get to the train station in district 12 via the dirt road that connected to the forest of district 13. The first thing I do is to search for a nearby place where I can get information on Katniss Everdeen. I enter the first one I see. Coal Digs Bar and Bistro. The place is packed. The manager is a stout old man with striking blue eyes and white hair. I could feel all eyes on me in the pub, but I'm getting used to the feeling of being looked at as if I'm a different creature. I remember one of the things that Prim taught me. She said I looked different, and people would always notice when something's different, but this doesn't always translate to negative attention. I resist the temptation to slouch, thinking back to when Prim looked up at me in wonder for the first time. I pull strength from this thought when I stride up to the counter where the old man is polishing decanters of amber liquid.

"Sir, do you know where I can find Katniss Everdeen?" I ask politely, careful not to bump into the people gathered around the bar, now ogling me from head to toe. The manager looks me over, reaches down to get something, and presents me with a glass filled with white sparkling liquid before answering.

"Drink up, tourist from 13," he proclaims loudly, and then motions for me to lean down. "Normally, I tell tourists the Mockingjay lives in Victors Village, and leave it at that. But because you're from 13, I'll tell you something good. Katniss Everdeen usually goes to the monument to mourn privately a day before Remembrance. You can catch her there right about now if you hurry."

I freeze, trying to understand exactly what the old man is saying. Mourn privately? Mourning who? A tiny, sharp needle of thought is poking at my consciousness, telling me something that I don't want to think of, a thought I could not possibly entertain. I push it aside, telling myself that the older Everdeen sister must have lost a lot of important friends during the war, and that's who she's mourning.

"I had a fine time in your district, your people got me and my family fed and warm when we had nothing…" the old man is rambling now, reminiscing about his sojourn to 13 as a refugee almost a decade ago.

"Excuse me, but who exactly is the Mockingjay mourning?" I ask when the old man paused for breath, trying to stem my fear and the growing suspicion in my head.

The old man sighs, "I don't know which version of the story reached you in 13, but here in 12, we know the Mockingjay never got over her sister's death. It wrecked her enough to shoot the person responsible for sending little Prim to the Capitol. This may sound like a conspiracy theory of sorts but old twelvers know exactly why Katniss Everdeen lost her mind after the war…"

I don't know how I got to the monument as fast as I did. I barely remember the short walk from the pub to the monument, or whether I thanked the old man for the information. Suddenly, I'm here, on my knees in front of the monument, wrestling with the voice in my head telling me that Prim has died. Laughing, cheerful, strictly professional, compassionate Prim is gone. I shake my head several times trying to clear the thought, telling myself it's a rumor. A bad rumor that goes around about a local celebrity. A lie people come up with to entertain themselves. So many nights I've thought about how she looks now that she's older. She probably still wears her hair in a braid, placing a folded handkerchief around her temples to keep the sweat from getting into her eyes as she sutures a patient's gaping wound. She's so alive in my memories, it's impossible to think of her, or what's left of her, beneath this stone monument. It can't be.

Someone places a vase of primroses beside my own primrose seedling and I look up from where I'm kneeling on the ground. A few feet away from me is Katniss Everdeen, the girl in the promotional poster Prim gave me. There are lines on her face that weren't there when the photo was taken, but it's definitely her. She has Prim's look about her, in a different color. Katniss looks nothing like Prim at first glance, but the way she stands hand in hand with the man beside her, the graceful way she slowly moves toward the stone marker, the fine hair on her forehead escaping her tight braid, the way she tilts her head as she looks up at the monument in silence, remind me of my blonde princess. So much that I stand up to get a better look.

She notices me looking, and I'm taken aback when I see her face in full. I can see so much of Prim on her face that it makes my heart ache.

"Katniss Everdeen. Prim's sister" I don't know if I said this out loud or just in my head.


	4. Chapter 4 Prim's Goodbye

Chapter 3 – Prim's Goodbye

I watch as my wife's face blanches in shock, then reddens in anger, as she listened to the claim of the stranger standing in front of us. It has been a few minutes after this boy, Frecks he said his name is, proclaimed with no embarrassment whatsoever that he was Prim's boyfriend. I look in sympathy, although I have no idea who to sympathize with first. The boy for having to face my wife's incredulity, or my wife for being told something that seems so impossible.

"I don't believe you," Katniss' voice is low, cold, and rife with barely suppressed indignation.

She looks him over, from head to foot, taking in everything from his clothing to his white muddy shoes. I recognize the outfit. He must have been a part of the team in District 13's hospital. While everyone else wore gray in 13, the hospital staff wore white. It is for this reason alone that I am entertaining the possibility of this boy telling the truth. That he might have met Prim in the hospital and they got close. I am careful not to show any sign of this thought on my face, my wife being as aggravated now as she is.

"She would have told me if she were ever remotely interested in anybody," Katniss is yelling now. "I would have known before anyone else!"

She's storming off in a huff, towards the line of pull-carts that serves as our district's main transportation nowadays. Her furious voice now directly aimed at the horse and the driver as she demands a ride on one of the carts, pointing in the direction of our house. The Victors Village is a few kilometers away from the center of the town, thirty minutes away on foot. If I ever hope to catch her, I need to ride on one of the carts myself soon.

But first things first, the boy.

"Don't take it personally," I say, sounding apologetic. "She's just pissed you may be telling the truth. You know how close she was to her sister."

His face winces as if he's in great pain, being reminded again that what he came here for is not here. Not anywhere. Looking at his shoes, he says quietly, "I still cannot believe she's dead. Not when I'm just about ready to tell her how I feel."

I sigh, trying to assess the situation. Should I take him home with me and risk Katniss flying off the handle? Or, should I leave him in the care of the peacekeepers? It's highly likely that he will show up in our doorstep in the morning, anyway. I can sense his ambivalence at Katniss' rejection. He has unfinished business in 12 regarding Prim, and we're the only ones that can tell him what happened to Prim. If he went this far to see her, he will want answers. Frankly, I want an explanation myself. I want to hear his story.

"I have something to give your wife, sir," he says, making the decision for me, "It's from Prim."

He's imploring with his eyes, even as he slouches lower and grips his bag closer to his chest. He's shaking again as the first night breeze starts to blow through the meadow. Whatever he wants to give Katniss is in his bag, I think to myself. What could it be? For a second, I give in to thoughts that he could be a Mockingjay fan or stalker from 13, wanting to see the famous girl that killed their leader. But there's a tone in his voice that I can't ignore. A heartbroken tone that reminds me of the way I was when I thought I'd lost Katniss to the Capitol, to the madness that permeated her mind even as she tried desperately to forget. Making a judgment call has always been my strong point, and there's a hopelessness about his demeanor that my heart sympathizes with, even as my mind leaps into wariness.

We sit side by side on the cart, and I look at the strange boy from the corner of my eyes. He still acts like the slightest sound from around us startles him. The sun has almost set by now, and he looks furtively at it as it settles between the clouds in the horizon, just a sliver of orange in the distance. We pass through the denser areas of 12, where people are either out on their lawns setting up their tables for the next day's affair, or bustling around inside their homes preparing dinner. It must be weird the way people on the surface operate, to a person who lived most of his life underground.

The lights are on when we reach our house, the doorway ajar. Inside I can see Haymitch pacing around holding a glass of what looks like mulled wine. Katniss must have asked him over, telling him about our guest, and her doubts about the boy from district 13. I pay the driver, who sits back and stares at the boy wobbling slightly as he comes down from the cart before riding away. I lead him inside, where Katniss is now seated in the living room, occupying the center of the loveseat where we cuddle every night right after dinner. Haymitch makes himself comfortable in the armchair to her right, almost putting his feet up on the low coffee table in front of him but crossing his legs instead. They leave the long divan across them free. Katniss has her arms across her chest, fidgeting expectantly, her fingers drumming on her elbows.

I sit right next to Frecks on the divan and watch him wordlessly open his sack, revealing a pile of clothes, a small plastic case filled with toilet items they gave everyone in district 13, a framed photograph and what looks like a folder of documents. Finally, he extracted a small wooden box from underneath the pile of clothing and handed it to Katniss. She looks at the box with a look of recognition, snatching it from Frecks' hands possessively and clutches it to her chest.

"How did you get this?" she demands, eyes welling up. "This was hers."

I seldom see Katniss emotional like this, especially in recent years. As acceptance of our past became our main goal, we hardly talk about the people we lost, concentrating instead on the future and the thousands of mundane things that need attention. But as she clutches the shoe box, I am reminded of the damaged girl that left the first Games with me. Small and vulnerable, and breakable. I look on, knowing we're reopening wounds that have barely healed. Letting old memories flood our minds. Letting the pain in again.

"Prim gave me the box for safekeeping before she went with the others to the Capitol," the boy answers simply, calmly looking at us in turn. "She said to give it to Katniss Everdeen if she didn't return. I-…"

He breaks off as he passed me a rumpled promotional poster of Katniss during the rebellion, its back side filled with writing. I read the small print and saw my name there, along with the names of Katniss, Haymitch and Gale. I pass the poster to Haymitch, who looks it over and hands it to Katniss. Haymitch motions for Frecks to hand him the folder still inside his open sack, and carefully leafs through the papers within. I lean over to read the contents along with him. In the folder is a government-issued pass to the capitol and to the other districts of Panem, birth records, a medic's license, a recommendation letter from his superior Nursy Jones, and several documents detailing his employment history. Augustine Jones, 23 years old. Lived and worked inside district 13's hospital pharmacy. Adopted by a member of the hospital staff at 2 years old. Birth parents refugees from the Capitol.

"I'm sorry I only delivered it now. I... I was waiting for her to return," he finishes lamely.

He's holding the framed photograph now, opening the frame and shaking several other photographs free. He hands all the photographs to Katniss. My wife's face has turned beet red with suppressed emotion, Prim's box on her lap as she looks at the photos. I can tell my wife's struggling to keep her composure and her disbelief, but failing, as the boy produces proof upon proof that he really did know her sister. Proof that he might have been a part of Prim's life, the part Katniss never knew about.

Though skeptical myself about what he said about being Prim's boyfriend, there is no doubt that he knew her personally during her stay in district 13. My guess is that his love for Prim was unrequited, something I can relate with. Katniss places the photographs carefully on the table, eyes glistening. She doesn't say anything, just stares at the boy and then back at the photographs.

The first photo shows Prim making a funny face at the camera, lips puckered, eyes squinting, and both hands over her blonde head like antlers. The other photograph is a group shot with the hospital staff including Prim and Katniss' mother in their white overalls. And the third one… the third one shows Prim beside the pharmacy counter, smiling straight at the camera, her cheeks pink and eyes bright. I swallow a lump in my throat as I see the family resemblance, as if seeing Prim for the first time. Despite striking dissimilarities, the girl in the photo could have been a blonde, younger Katniss in her happy mode. They have the same cheekbones, the same playful look in their eyes. Prim's holding a pen in one hand and a clear jar of what looks like fennel seeds in the other. Right across her is the boy Frecks, or rather, a much younger version, his wavy red hair swept in a loose ponytail on his nape. He is facing the camera, but his blue eyes are looking sideways at Prim, with an expression in them I can only describe as lovesick.

"So, Prim's boyfriend, huh?" Haymitch breaks the silence first, slightly amused, and more than a bit drunk. "How far have you gone? Kissed her already?" Trust Haymitch to ask the most inappropriate questions.

Frecks blushes defensively, "It's not like that," he starts, neck turning red when he hears Katniss give a loud snort, "She told me once that I'm special, and told her she's special, too. But it didn't go farther than that." He's clasping and unclasping his hands in embarrassment. "At best, we were close friends."

"What was she like in the hospital," I ask curiously, knowing Katniss would want to know. "Tell us more about how you knew her."

Frecks paints a clear picture of the girl Prim, as if we never knew her, his face animated. He talks in a light, bragging tone, which sets Katniss on edge slightly, I can tell from the way she curls her lips while listening to his tirade of stories. He recalls conversations with Prim in a strange manner, talking in the district 12 cadence as he repeats things that Prim had said, his voice turning shrill and girl-like. Even Katniss, who until now has been adamant about treating this boy coldly, is smiling slightly, eyebrows going up and down as she listens. At one point, Haymitch tries vainly to contain his laughter but ends up choking on his wine. Watching the boy talk is like watching one of the slapstick shows that Plutarch airs after the news. I feel a surge of camaraderie with the boy, and I know instantly that I would probably sound like him if asked to tell stories about Katniss.

The Prim he knew had a sweet disposition, but had a temper. He talks about how she would demand only the best herbal medicines from the pharmacy, and would go into a serious fit when something's not right. She would apologize just as easily with a big grin after he delivers exactly what she asked for, as if the temper tantrum was just his imagination. He talks about the girl who would jump around in joy when one of her patients showed signs of recovery, and would burst into tears in private after a patient dies. He tells us about how Prim stared down the bullies in the stock room the day before she went away. The Primrose Everdeen he knew and loved is the same person that grew up with Katniss, but resembles her older sister distinctly in many ways. In his stories, Prim comes across as volatile, devoted and caring, not unlike the girl I married.

"And then, she would say 'Katniss this, Katnish that' as if you were some god-like being who can do no wrong," he says looking at Katniss with more than a hint of nostalgia on his face, as if seeing Prim in her older sister's face. Katniss snorts again, rolling her eyes at him, but her face is softer now. Katniss stares at the fire, while the boy turns to me and quietly asks, "What happened to her? How did she die?"

I glance at Katniss furtively, gauging her reaction. Haymitch stands to refill his glass, and I clear my throat.

"The medic team was bombed in the middle of the capitol as they were trying to save the children" I say as gently as I can, trying not to look at Katniss. "Prim died a hero, Frecks."

Frecks' eyes widen, but he says nothing. He looks at the fire in the hearth, eyes narrowing as if trying to recall. His eyebrows furrow deeply, not taking his eyes from the fireplace. Finally, he says, "There were five medic teams deployed to the Capitol that day. Prim was in the last one. Did anyone confirm that Prim was in the medic team that got bombed?"

"There was no need to. There were eye witnesses that said she was in the fray," We're treading on dangerous ground, I know. I can feel my wife agitated and ready to pounce from where she's seated.

Frecks stands up, his chest heaving, eyes wild. "But it was never confirmed that she was in that group. How could people just write her off as dead when they didn't even check? Did anyone search the remains to identify her body?" To my horror, he turns accusingly to Katniss, "For all you know, she might be somewhere else right now, injured permanently, unable to recall who she is. Did you try looking for her at all?"

Katniss is standing up herself, furious at the boy's audacity. She's a heartbeat away from throwing a fit, shocked at the implications of the boy's words. "I saw her die myself, you stupid boy! I lost my mind trying to forget the memory of my little sister bursting into flames. How dare you imply that I did nothing to confirm whether she died or not! HOW DARE YOU!"

I move quickly to where my wife is standing, poised for a fight. I hug her close, pressing my lips on her ears, "Hush. He's in denial, sweetheart. Let him be," I whisper, willing her to loosen her fists. "Let him be." Her body is still rigid with consternation, not willing to back down from the boy's accusations. I can understand what she's feeling as much as I can relate to the emotions of the boy across her. He's just learning about Prim's death, while the rest of us, Katniss especially, have spent almost a decade trying to heal. It's like being hit by a bullet, at first there's numbness and your brain denies that you've been hit. It takes a while for the pain to sink in.

I pick up the box from the floor where it fell when Katniss stood up, my other arm still holding her in place. Frecks has crumpled to the floor, head on his knees and crying quietly. He holds the photo of Prim, the one taken inside the pharmacy, to his chest. I half carry, half drag Katniss upstairs, hoping she can stay there for a while until her emotions settle. Exchanging a glance with Haymitch, who has been standing by the kitchen counter all this time looking on as Katniss and Frecks are having their row, I nod to him as he pours water in a glass for the boy. He's here mostly for damage control, which he does often when letters arrive to us from other districts. Even a decade after the rebellion, there's no telling what could set us spiraling back to the way we were right after the war. Sanity is a delicate thing for us survivors, and every day is a battle for normalcy that we hope to win for the long term.

"That insolent kid," Katniss is still ranting when we reach our room, "That… that… BUTTERCUP!" she says the last word as if it is the most horrible description she can give a person.

I reach out to comfort her again, hiding my sad smile in her hair, seeing the parallel between the boy and the orange tabby cat that lived with us for 4 years until her death five years ago. They both travelled from 13 intent on finding Prim, only to be told she's gone for good. Buttercup, the cat, lived for as long as she can afterwards, still mewing hopefully every time the door opened or someone uncorked a bottle of herbs. After a few years of this, she simply stopped eating anything we offered her, retreating to her corner, refusing to move. For his sake, I hope Frecks handles Prim's death better than her cat did.

I lead her to the bed and sit with her. I hold Katniss as she opens Prim's shoe box reverently. She gasps when she sees the treasures Prim has collected over the years. Things Katniss has forgotten. An old medal from a spelling contest, a dried out baby tooth for the tooth fairy, their father's belt buckle, the expensive flea collar Prim begged her to buy for buttercup… small trinkets from their childhood lovingly kept in the tiny shoe box. Katniss starts wailing as she lifts what looks like a braided piece of rope from the box. In wonder, I realize the rope is made up of two thick hair locks, one brown and one blonde, twined together to form one braid.

"She was too scared to… cut her hair… so I… c-cut mine, too," Katniss hiccups, trying to hold her sobs as she recalls, "we collected our fallen hair and braided them, made a promise that w-we will always be… ss-sisters."

She collapses on my chest, sobbing hard, pressing the braid to her lips as she cried. I hug her so hard, overwhelmed at the flood of emotions flowing out of my wife, knowing I can't do anything but hold her until she stops. I rock back and forth, crooning slightly, until her sobs cease. I lay her on the bed gently and she doesn't resist. I'm going to prepare dinner so she might as well rest for a while. She nods, squeezing my hand. She's more expressive with her emotions now, leaving them bare to heal naturally instead of shutting them inside her consciousness where they could fester into terrible nightmares. Crying together or alone helps more than we realize. Even Haymitch has learned how to cry. We're healing. No matter how long it takes, we will all heal someday.


	5. Chapter 5 Remembrance Day

**A/N – Thanks for the feedback and reviews! Greatly appreciated. ^_^ Here's the final chapter. Enjoy!**

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**Chapter 5 – Remembrance Day**

Remembrance Day is here, marking nine years since we came back from the Capitol, ragged shells barely hanging on. It's been nine years since Katniss and I spent every day fending off nightmares, and every night convincing each other we're never going to go through the horror again. It took us half a decade to install a television in our room, partly because we're getting sick of Plutarch asking our opinion about his new shows, and partly for Katniss, who has developed a crush for a certain television celebrity who looks uncannily like Finnick Odair. I wonder if she knows I know. She comes home early from her hunting to catch the now-famous detective show featuring him. I probably should be jealous, but I'm not. Just amused. I can't really complain when I see how relaxed she looks, sitting on the bed still in her hunting clothes, munching on some crispies while watching TV. Dare I hope my temperamental wife is finally embracing domestic bliss, which may lead to her wanting a bigger family soon? Working with kids in the bakery has made me more and more inclined to make some of my own, but ultimately, the decision will have to come from Katniss.

What's giving us strength right now is the way the whole of Panem is coping. It's as if every man, woman and child still living after the second rebellion made a vow to forget the terror. And only on this day are we supposed to remember, as one republic, what happened almost a decade ago. Today, Plutarch is airing live broadcasts from the other districts, all of which celebrate Remembrance Day in a different way. In District 8, they've set up a stage where a live band plays until Paylor's speech, after which she releases the first of a thousand white balloons to the sky, each one carrying a scrap of fabric to represent a loved one that died in the bombings. In District 11, the square in front of the Justice hall is decorated with flower beds and lanterns, and people come in droves singing and dancing barefoot on the streets, brightly colored clothes flying in the wind. The mood in the Capitol is more somber, as expected, but even the jaded Capitol citizens have been seen tying white ribbons around their doorknobs on Remembrance Day.

Turning the volume lower, I hear rustling from her side of the bed. Katniss looks at me sleepily from the pillow, eyes still swollen from last night. She smiles, wan and tired after a good cry. We have found a small note underneath the collection of trinkets inside the box, right beneath the pink plastic teether that Katniss and Prim shared. In her letter, Prim informed her sister about her mission to the Capitol, saying she might have a chance to help Katniss in the Capitol. It seems little Prim had never forgotten the image of Katniss and her burned leg during the first Hunger Games. Prim also wrote about her friend Frecks, asking Katniss to go easy on him, and that he means well despite his wild looks. Too late for that, I think to myself wryly, remembering their row in the living room.

Towards the end of the letter, Prim wrote:

_Thank you, Katniss, for volunteering to take my place in the Reaping._

_I never thanked you for that. For saving me that day. _

And that's when my wife lost it. Katniss bawled like she never did before, saying "you don't have to thank me for that, you silly duck!" and I cried along with her, hugging her until the last of her sobs are spent. Thank goodness she slept peacefully. I don't know how I would have reacted if my father had left a letter for me before he perished in the bombing and I only got to read it now. I would probably have regressed to the way I was, enough to need Dr. Aurelius again.

I turn off the television quickly, turning to her.

"Are you ok, sweetheart?" I whisper, concerned. The chances of her relapsing to depression after last night's events are moderate to high. Here in our room, on this night of nostalgic reminiscence, Prim's message from heaven may be enough to unravel all that we have been struggling to build. Katniss has been mourning her sister every day, in small ways. The sad lullaby in the shower when she thinks I've gone down to the kitchen in the morning. The way she wipes the dust off the leaves of the primrose plants around the house before she goes hunting. I hope against hope that this letter and her sister's childhood mementos can give her the closure she needs.

"I'm fine," she whispers back, smiling sadly. "Prim's letter came at the right time. I've missed her so much all this time."

I sidle up to her under the blankets to give her a long morning hug. Not trusting myself to talk, I try to give her the warm comfort she needs by holding her close. I feel the lump in my throat growing, wishing I can be all that she needs to feel happy, desperately trying to tell her without words how much I want her to stay with me. How much I want to live the rest of my life with her. I can feel her relaxing under my touch. She smiles wider, looks out the window and stretches her arms over her head. She blinks, willing herself to wake.

"But Prim's going to have to wait a long, long time before seeing me again. I plan to live a long, long—" she kisses me lightly, "life with my husband," she finishes earnestly, her eyes on me as I play with her hair.

I blink. Did she feel my panic? Have I given my thoughts away? We look at each other silently for a while. Then she adds, not taking her eyes off me "With my husband, and the beautiful children we will raise together."

"Really, Katniss?" I ask, my throat tightening. "You want to build a family with me?"

She nods, her eyes filling with tears as she cups my face in her hands. "I thought about how happy and lucky I was growing up with a sister. I thought, if Prim and I never existed, if my parents decided never to have children, I would have missed all that…" she glances at the box by her bedside, "happiness", she finishes.

There are no words to describe how I feel. All I want to do is thank Katniss for her decision, but I can't get any sound to come out. Finally, a family with the woman I love. I compensate for my lack of words by tightening my arms around her, my mind reeling with the imaginary sounds of squealing and small feet pitter-pattering on the stairs. My heart is beating hard, as I try to imagine how it must feel to see a part of myself and of my wife in one small, pink bundle of joy.

Then, a thought occurred to me. "When do we… start?" I ask, feeling my face heat up.

Katniss smiles her devious grin that always gets to me, "As soon as Prim's _other_ buttercup leaves," she replies, one eyebrow arching meaningfully.

I've completely forgotten about Frecks, our guest from district 13. We find him in the sitting room with a mop in hand, removing the film of grime from the crystal chandelier hanging over the sofa. He's wearing a cleaner version of the district 13 uniform he had on the night before. Greasy Sae passes by carrying a bundle of food and supplies, muttering something about the kitchen ceiling needing a thorough scrubbing. To my surprise, I see Haymitch sitting on an armchair, sipping a glass of whiskey. I sit across him, a foolish grin on my face, wanting to blurt out the good news but holding back. I wonder how Haymitch will take the news that he's going to be a grandfather soon.

"It's too early in the day for that," Katniss tells him, wrinkling her nose as she hurries to help Sae in the kitchen.

"Well, a blessed Remembrance Day to you, too, Miss Mockingjay," Haymitch retorts snidely.

He turns back to Frecks, who's still polishing each crystal teardrop in turn, tip-toeing slightly to reach the ones on top. "As I was saying, dear boy, I can buy all your district 13 notes and you'll have enough coins to buy one of the houses here. The rate I'm giving you is higher than any money changer in any district. Heck, I'll even foot the bill for the equipment myself. Think about it," Haymitch is sweet talking Frecks into a deal of some sort.

"What's that about?" I whisper to Haymitch, confused.

"He knows how to make distilled alcohol from grains and mushrooms," Haymitch whispers back, his eyes gleaming, voice tense with suppressed excitement, looking like he's just struck gold.

I grin at him, looking over to where Frecks is receiving a bucket of water from Sae. He's preparing to mop a black sooty spot on the ceiling right above my oven. He's so tall, he can make good living scrubbing ceilings all over district 12, I think to myself. That, and becoming Haymitch Abernathy's personal whiskey producer. Then, I remember my conversation with Katniss in bed.

"Katniss doesn't like him," I say. "He can't stay here. They'll be at each other's throats every day."

"It's his decision, not yours," he scoffs, throwing me a dirty look.

There's a knock on the door, and I go to open it. It's Delly and her gang of merchants from town. In their arms are baskets filled with treats of every shape and kind. Down feathers, balls of yarn, a container of gravy, candies and treats, a loaf or two of the bread I baked yesterday. I stand there smiling at them as I call out to Katniss. In a second, she's by the door, smiling graciously, receiving her gifts. Remembrance Day in 12 is also known as Thank-the-Mockingjay Day, an event that can only happen in our district. Then, Delly turns around and lifts her hand to the crowd outside, and they all burst into song.

_Here's to our Mockingjay, Panem's freedom bird!_

_Fly to the distance, Where our soft cries can be heard!_

_Sing to us, Sing for us, Sing the song of peace!_

_Welcome to our homes, Join us in our feast!_

The song changes melodies every year, I think, or is it just Delly's singing? I glance at Katniss while they're singing – shouting – the lines and I can see she's almost at her limit suppressing the same guffaw that Haymitch does not bother to suppress behind us. After the song, laughing with Delly and waving our thanks to the rest, we go to the table where Sae and Frecks are busy unpacking the first bundles of our loot this year. There are all sorts of stuff, even a lone package of the rare silk toilet paper usually found in Capitol toilets.

Frecks watches in shocked amazement as Haymitch knocks back a fistful of chestnuts, some dropping messily to the kitchen floor. He's probably aghast, even embarrassed, at how the outside world can be so wasteful. Katniss squeals in disbelief as she beholds a sealed package of stewed lamb chops. I squeeze her shoulders and kiss her cheek, feeling giddy with mirth at the thought that someone spent all that money to buy her favorite dish. She's still surprised when people think of her as the one person that freed them from the Capitol's oppression. It was the districts that made it all possible, she would say when asked to give a public speech. But I can tell she has finally allowed herself to acknowledge the overwhelming attention that people in our district and in the other districts have given her, even during her exile.

"District 12 has outdone itself this year," Haymitch proclaims proudly, holding aloft a bottle of rice wine, another imported item. "Oh, by the way, Katniss. Johanna sent you some arrow shafts, they're in my house," he says as he walks back to the armchair with the bottle under one arm. Last year, Johanna sent wooden clothes hangers. This year, it's arrow shafts. The timber industry must be booming in 7, with her at the helm.

We push some of the gifts to Sae, who leaves right after serving lunch, eager to spend the day with her family. Haymitch and Frecks join us for lunch, and we eat our stew in silence. Soon, we're all leaning back, replete and sleepy. We have around seven hours until our scheduled appearance at the monument, this year requested by the new Mayor himself. We can spend our day off in bed, I think blissfully, looking sideways at Katniss and winking when she looks back. She ducks her head, cheeks turning pink, as she polishes off her cream cheese dessert. Haymitch notices the light flirtation between us and clears his throat awkwardly. The next moment, he is standing up, muttering something about feeding the geese. He reaches into his pocket and hands Frecks a small card with several names and numbers scribbled on it. I recognize the names of people Haymitch keeps in touch with in the new government.

"Call me after you've tried all these. This one—" Haymitch shows Frecks the backside of the card, "can give you lodging, and a job, if you run out." He pats the boy once on the shoulder and walks out, leaving us alone with our guest.

"You're going to the Capitol?" I ask, knowing the answer just by looking at Frecks' face. He has not given up. He's still going there to look for Prim.

"Well, I—" he stammers, glancing at Katniss, who's putting down her fork slowly, avoiding his eyes, "I want to see the place where my birth parents lived."

Katniss and I walk hand in hand to the platform in the train station. Frecks is boarding the lone train in operation on this day. He gives me a little salute, and Katniss a wry twist of his lips, as he boards the train. He's on the road again, to strange places, searching for a girl he will never find. The idea that she might still be out there, wasting away with long-term amnesia, is a long shot. No, an improbability that no one else but a delusional person will believe. But I can't blame him. I probably would have done the same if it were Katniss that disappeared and everyone around, including her family, has written her off as dead.

"Why is Haymitch being so nice to him?" Katniss asks, her voice soft and devoid of its usual edge. It seems she sympathizes with the boy more than she lets on. After all, they love the same person.

"He can make whiskey," I reply, laughing as Katniss rolls her eye and smirk, "I don't know, maybe he feels sorry for the boy."

Deciding to take the long way to Victors Village, we pass by the school and walk to children's playground. The celebrations are on the other side of town. There's no one around and we take our time, both of us lost in our memories of this place, the school where I first saw her. Katniss is sitting on a bench. She looks on as I try swinging on the monkey bars, a small smile playing on her lips. The breeze has started to pick up, blowing her hair away from her face.

"I wonder if we'll have a boy first," she calls out, "Can you make sure we have a boy first, then a girl last?"

I laugh out loud at this, dropping expertly to the sand below the rungs of the monkey bars. I grab another bar and work my way across, pausing, feeling the breeze on my sweaty skin.

"Katniss, we can't guarantee our baby's gender. It's like rolling a dice," I huff, concentrating on play to hide my elation over my wife's conversation topic of choice. "Although we can always raise a daughter like a son, if we get a girl first. You know. Like your father did."

She grabs a kid's abandoned toy poking out from the sand and throws it at me. I let go of a rung to catch it, grunting as I lose my balance and land on the sand. It's a blue plastic car, paint chipping off, one of its wheels lost in the sand somewhere. Now is the time to plan for the future. Here, in a place where our children will come to play, the same place I played in when I was a kid, Katniss looks content, smiling as she takes back the toy and shakes the sand off. I sit beside her, feeling mixed emotions all of a sudden. Elation. Excitement. And that other emotion that doesn't have a name, a nervous anticipation of some sort, the good kind. They're all here, swirling inside my chest, rendering me speechless.

Katniss grabs my hands, pressing the plastic toy in them, but not letting go. I look up to see my wife's face very close to mine. "You're going to be a wonderful father, Peeta," she says softly, pressing her lips to mine.

I grab her, hugging her tight, burrowing my face into her shoulder. "Thank you," I say, my voice muffled, not sure she heard me. She starts singing, rocking me from side to side, her voice gaining power as she goes through the notes of the Valley Song. Only this time, she sings with the voice of an adult woman, still with unbridled joy, the way she sang it in the classroom when we were five.

* * *

**A/N: Thanks for reading this fanfic! It's my first.**


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